


Baby We're Going Down (Like The Titanic)

by demisms



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Almighty Queen Of Blackmail Lydia Martin, F/M, Illustrated, Making Out, Titanic - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:52:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisms/pseuds/demisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m too old for you.”</p><p>“I don’t care.”</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>“I like older men.”</p><p>“Lydia —”</p><p>“And I am <i>so</i> done with high school boys.”</p><p>Water is filling the lower decks of the boat and the flood doors are slamming shut. It’s an excellent analogy for Derek’s brain, because the more he fights to control his temper, the faster his frustration shuts down his synapses.</p><p>Or: The One Where Derek Hale Is A Fail Boat And Lydia Martin Has An Agenda And Oh, Hey, Look, A Pretty Picture!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby We're Going Down (Like The Titanic)

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled: We Won't Have A Love Like The Movies.
> 
> (I'm balls at titles.)
> 
> Prompt: Derek/Lydia - dryhumping
> 
> Art is by the beautiful, glorious [Shannon](http://yellowis4happy.tumblr.com/), who was patient and wonderful enough to coach me through writing this and then gut it for my tense and spelling errors, along with repetitiveness. And then she illustrated it! Isn't she a doll?

 

Derek regrets a lot of his life choices in hindsight a few days after the fact, but he regrets trying to apologize to Lydia Martin almost immediately. He tries to back pedal, but she's crafty and a little scary with a blunt object in her hand (even if it’s just a television remote) and he ends up sitting uncomfortably on her living room sofa while Lydia manipulates her entertainment center into playing her 10th anniversary edition of _Titanic_.

He hates this movie. He’d seen it in the theater with Laura and Bridget, had shuffled uncomfortably when Kate Winslet had lain naked on the couch, and when she and Leonardo DiCaprio had steamed up the windows of that old timey car, Laura had glanced at him and snickered. Bridget had sworn she’d never take either of them to a movie again if they couldn’t behave like they were adults, but had still been the one to sneak him into his first R-rated film a few years later. On top of painful memories, it was stupid, sappy, and gross. Romance movies in general made him roll his eyes, but ones that masqueraded as the dramatic love story to end all love stories were just exhausting.

Lydia eats it up, though. She gazes at the screen with a glossed over, invested expression. It takes her until the boat strikes the ice berg to notice he’s been staring, and then she readjusts, ruffles her feathers, and clears her throat. He expects to be told off, to be told he’s being creepy (it’s something he’s come to anticipate from high school students — they really had a limited vocabulary — and made him resent the life choices that had been biting them) but she doesn’t.

“I don’t have anyone to take me to home coming,” she announces, and he’s caught off guard.

“What?”

“I don’t have a date. To homecoming,” she repeats with emphasis, and she’s looking at him as if she expects something.

Whatever it is, Derek’s not giving it to her. “Ask Stiles.”

“I don’t want to ask Stiles,” she drawls, eyes narrowing and lips catching in a soft snarl. He doesn’t begrudge her disgust; the boy has a serious case of no-brain-to-mouth-itus, and thinks his oner-liners are hilarious, when those traits really just came together to make him one obnoxious ball of sweat sock stink and hyperactivity. Derek is resenting all the times that he’s had to go to him for help and is so over involved in his negative internal monologue that he almost misses what Lydia says next. He asks for clarification anyway — because he doesn’t like what he thinks he hears.

“What?”

“I said, ‘That’s why I’m asking you’.”

Oh, yup — that isn’t what he wanted to hear.

“Lydia...” he starts warily, trying to let her down easily. But she cuts him off.

“It’s your fault,” she explains smoothly. “That Jackson left, I mean. You might not have driven him out yourself, but _you_ bit him, _you_ changed him, and _you_ didn’t help him afterward.” Derek’s teeth click together in annoyance at her implication that Jackson and the kanima fiasco were somehow his responsibility (they were and he knew it already) but Lydia seems to sense his plans to interrupt her and preemptively override him. “I miss him.”

There’s a pause, made pregnant by her unwavering gaze, expectant, demanding, and a little sad, he thinks, in the wake of her previous honesty.

“But he’s gone now, and we broke up anyway. I’m ready to move on, but I have this standard for who I date, you see.”

Derek is watching her warily, leaning as far away from her as he can without falling off the couch. He’s made hyperaware of the soft sheen of her hair, the (adorable) upturn of her nose, the low slung neckline of her tank top and — their age difference.

“I’m too old for you,” he counters with gruff shortness.

Lydia is unshaken, however, and arches an eyebrow that all but scream, _And?_ “I don’t think you’d want me dating anyone else, anyway. Not if you don’t want to risk me accidentally saying something that might, hmm... incriminate you. You, Scott, Jackson, Isaac Lahey.... It’s kind of a lot of information not to share at some point — even if it’s just on accident.”

“Lydia —”

“You never know, we could just be talking about going to the beach —”

“Lydia.”

“— And I just might slip up and mention Matt Daehler and that whole murder thing.”

“Lydia!”

“Or maybe my newfound obsession with the cycles of the moon and _Aconitum napellus_ will raise a bit of suspicion, or at least a few questions. And the key to a healthy relationship is communication, and I can’t just _not communicate._ ”

“ _Lydia!_ ”

“You know, I still have nightmares.”

He’d expected that card to be pulled eventually. Peter had been nondescript with the events leading up to his resurrection, but from the express, intimate knowledge he has of Lydia Martin — and from what he’s gathered from Scott, Jackson, and Stiles — there had been a great deal of manipulation and scare tactics included in his utilization of her. Given how dutifully she avoided any and all things werewolf head on, it had probably had to do with his alpha form and he supposed he could understand. Derek’s compassion only runs so deep, but he lifts his chin in a sort of half hearted nod.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her stiffly, though not unkindly.

“That’s your fault, too,” she responds, and he sighs dramatically. Okay, okay, that’s fair. He killed Peter and that’s how he got in her head. He means to nod but is distracted by the seemingly nervous way she bites her lip. For the first time in the evening she’s hesitant, tentative, almost like she expected a bit more of a fight. Maybe he should give her one.

“I’m too old for you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“I like older men.”

“Lydia —”

“And I am _so_ done with high school boys.”

Water is filling the lower decks of the boat and the flood doors are slamming shut. It’s an excellent analogy for Derek’s brain, because the more he fights to control his temper, the faster his frustration shuts down his synapses.

“And I’m done with high school _girls_.”

“Even Erica?”

He gapes at her.

“You don’t even _like_ me.”

“I could.”

“That’s not a reason to date someone.”

“I think you’re attractive, too.”

“Oh my god, you’re not even listening to me.”

She really isn’t because she tries to take his hand at that moment. He jerks away from her, but that’s not a wise decision in the end because Lydia just redirects and settles her palm on his thigh.

“Lydia —!”

“Derek,” she parrots, mocking his resistance before favoring him with a calm, pointed stare. “Please stop fighting me.”

She’s leaning in and he’s panicking, but when he throws up a hand to catch her chin, she turns her head and bites the webbing between his thumb and index finger. He thinks she might not mean to, meant instead to get his thumb, but Lydia doesn’t even bat an eyelash. She _nibbles_ , and he jerks bodily, and she’s gazing at him with a positively devious sparkle in her pretty green eyes, and — wait, what the hell? Since when did Lydia Martin have _pretty_ eyes? He needs to get his head in the game and his hand out of her mouth. But if he’s being completely honest with himself (which he isn’t very often) he...doesn’t really want to.

Her lip gloss is smearing across his skin but he doesn’t even begrudge it once she moves from nibbling to suckling. It’s the most debauch, indecent thing he’s partaken in since Erica jumped him in the subway tunnel, and he revels in it. Her fingers are on his wrist, pulling his hand from her mouth and then forward; forward so far he’s forced to lean in. Then she’s kissing him, and it’s kind of game over. She’s alternating between kissing him hard and kissing him softly, like she’s trying to find what exactly it would take to evoke some sort of reaction from him. At one point, she bites him hard enough to make his lip throb for a second, and he thinks she’s assumed he’s an animal and thus wants to kiss like one. He doesn’t, for the record. Biting her back has no appeal — _she’s probably scared of biting,_ he thinks, so no, he doesn’t want to bite her back.

He just wants to be on top of her.

Like, _now._

Huh, maybe biting had worked. But he wouldn’t act on his basest desires and — oh, whoops, too late.

Lydia smirks into his mouth and reaches her hands to cup his face when he settles between her legs. It’s only a matter of time before she’s hitching her hips and grinding in such a way that surpasses suggestive, and he’s groaning. It’s not a growl. Totally not a growl.

Kissing Lydia Martin turns out not to be so bad. If she pushes this home coming thing, he’d still be stubborn and refuse, but this? He could do this again. He’d even watch stupid chick-flick movies and not regret them immediately if it meant he could sprawl on top of her, press her into the plush cushions of her expensive living room sofa, feel her shudder against his jeans. and smell her content.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, go appreciate the fabulous [Shannon](http://yellowis4happy.tumblr.com/)! Reblogable version can be found [here](http://yellowis4happy.tumblr.com/post/45405722568/this-may-or-may-not-be-a-wildly-comical)! 
> 
> And don't forget to comment and kudos!


End file.
